Arkhamverse 19: For Dad
by iammemyself
Summary: Someone on Tumblr told me to write a fic about the Riddler receiving a packet of hot chocolate mix from his robot children while he was in jail.


'For Dad'

Synopsis courtesy of lankybrunettepartdeux:

Hey Indy: fic idea just 4 u

Eddie getting a package at Arkham

it's coccoa mix

scribbled on the side is "4 dad"

Another day, another ten hours (give or take) of staring at the ceiling.

Edward had been deposited back at the already overstuffed temporary mental health facility once the requisite paperwork had been filed; against his advice his lawyer had (again) pleaded him unfit to stand trial by reason of insanity - which Edward would have argued, had he been invited to the hearing. He hadn't been. Edward was becoming unsure as to why he kept the woman around at all; she'd kept him out of jail, certainly, and he was truly lucky to actually _have_ a lawyer and not some moron appointed by the state. But she _never_ listened to him! He wasn't a lawyer, obviously, but he was well-versed in all matters of legality. He had to be. How else to exploit the loopholes the lawmakers had so generously left on the books? She was a good lawyer, in fact the best one he'd ever seen, and he honestly was not sure how he'd retained her all these years. There was the fact that he could afford whatever she asked, of course, but he was somewhat certain she felt _sorry_ for him, which was... baffling. A _lawyer_ with a _heart_?

Not that he was anything to feel sorry _for_ , no sir! Somewhere in a reluctant corner of his mind, though, he knew he was lucky to have her. His first couple of lawyers had had him sent to Blackgate, which was even worse than Arkham. He didn't belong _there_ anymore than he belonged... wherever here was. But Kelley had taken one look at him and said, "You can't go to Blackgate."

"It wouldn't be the first time, my dear," he'd told her, frowning at the frayed cuff of his sleeve. His encounter with the Bat had been rough on _that_ particular outfit.

"I can see that." Kelley had then flipped through a rather large ahead of legal documents over the next ten minutes and then told him, "I'm getting these charges thrown out and then I am suing your previous lawyers for negligence. You should never have gone to Blackgate."

"I know!" he'd exclaimed, leaning forward. "My dear, if you look at it like - "

"You are clearly mentally unfit to stand trial," Kelley had interrupted. "You should have been sentenced to a rehabilitation period in Arkham Asylum with your _first_ conviction. It seems your previous attorneys let your... _brusque_ manner get in the way of their jobs."

"Oh," Edward had said, not quite sure where those papers had told her he was insane. He was most definitely _not_. He _did_ have that minor issue with the counting and the handwashing, et al, but he had never _told_ anyone...

Ever since that day, Edward had been sent to the Asylum. And now, this place. Some hospital, redecorated to hold all manner of supercriminals of the human, animal, and plant configuration, as well as a few variations in between. He hadn't tried to escape it yet. His mandated therapist had gotten him on a medication that somewhat suppressed his genius, not to mention his energy levels. He was tired all the time. Sonorous and drained. As such, certain gears in his brain were grinding together and not producing much of anything. Most of his time was spent daydreaming, much of this about things he'd like to build later or programs he needed to write to supplement his income. The one saving grace of this medication, whatever it was, lay in the lack of dreams he remembered. He knew he was having them, and that they were... less than pleasant, but he didn't remember them anymore. He honestly wasn't sure how many of his thoughts were coherent, not that he would ever admit that to anyone. He had the feeling they started off nicely and then trailed down into the bizarre.

Some of the more solid thoughts were about Jonathan. Edward had seen what had happened to him, obviously; who hadn't? He and the old man were sometimes enemies, sometimes friends and sometimes much _more_ than friends, and because of the latter two Edward was left with some hazy fondness that lead him to actually _worry_. Having been in close, but secretive, contact with Jonathan, Edward was well aware that his remaining health was approaching negligible. If someone had asked Edward how exactly the man was still living, Edward would have replied with merely, "Willpower." Something the two of them held in common, though when their wills ran aground of each other...

There was one thing Edward tried not to think about. He did it anyway, and did it often; he couldn't help it. He missed them. He had never meant to. He had meant to construct them for their singular purpose: to faithfully and unyieldingly obey his every whim. But those first three... ah, he had gotten excited. On the first one the AI had gotten out of hand, much by mistake; on the second, a series of somewhat feverish ideas had occurred somewhat intentionally; on the third, the widely unneeded details had been entirely and unabashedly on purpose. But he couldn't think about them, or he tried not to. The factory was gone, after all. Demolished by that vile and heartless Cat! It was unlikely they were still alive. Unlikely they hadn't struck out on their own if they had survived. Unlikely...

Unlikely they wanted him to come back at all.

Which was why he elected not to think about them. Or elected to _try_. He didn't need those kind of people in his life.

Kind of _robots_?

No, no, they were as much people as they could possibly be. He knew that. He couldn't forget that. He wanted to, because remembering hurt.

Then again, when hadn't it?

He sighed, or tried to; the medicine made the air in his lungs thick also, as though he were breathing something other than air. A tad denser. Like...

Christ, he should know this.

He settled for rolling over, so that he could press his forehead into the smooth drywall. Arkham didn't have drywall. Neither did Blackgate. One had crumbling tile revealing cold cement, and the other rough concrete that had scraped against his skin some mornings. In all three of these places, though, the wall was cool and it felt nice. He had the impression the medication also raised his internal temperature by a few degrees. Not enough for him to be feverish, but enough that he was always a little too warm. The wall didn't stay cool for very long, but it made him feel better for a minute.

He wondered if he was on medication at all. Perhaps he was being sedated. He kept forgetting to forget to…

To forget to forget to…

Thinking was hard, lately. He had the feeling he'd been… excitable, before this. He only dimly remembered the feverish minutes he'd spent on the phone with his computer. He recalled being tased. _That_ was _impossible_ to forget. After that… not very much. This fog in his head, mostly. The daydreaming. Mm. Not like him, not like him at _all_.

He found himself thinking of Ada and her predisposition to hang off his leg at every available opportunity. He hadn't minded that, not really. She liked to cuddle, that one. Which was good, because so did -

No. It wasn't the time for that.

What _was_ it the time for, then? How long had he been lying here? He felt as though the fact he didn't know should have bothered him, but his brain was little more than _soup_. That couldn't remain much longer. He was starting to feel upset now, upset and frustrated. He needed to think, needed to _plan_. But some critical part of his mind was fast asleep, numbed by the chemical he didn't remember ingesting. He was sad all of a sudden. He wanted to go… home.

He had no home. He was –

No, the factory was home. His children were there. Children made anyplace a home, didn't they?

But the factory was gone. They were gone. Without them, it wasn't a home anyway.

He was covering his face. He hadn't realised. He wasn't crying. But his eyes burned a little.

He was so _sick_ of this…

In and out and in and out, shuffled from one temporary space to the next. From a cell on the first floor to a cell on the second to a cell on the outside to a cell on the inside to –

Oh, that was _not_ good.

He sat up.

It made him a little light-headed, at first, but that was fine. He was thinking in circles, in ellipses, in spheres. That was when it was time to rally himself. Enough lounging about. Action, he must take action.

He stifled a yawn with one fist and looked behind him at the sound of a shuffle and a clang approximately in front of the hastily constructed metal bars. They were flimsy. Cheap. If he'd been in his right mind he would have left already. The answer was there, somewhere. He couldn't reach it. It frustrated him. It angered him.

It scared him.

"Nygma," the man outside of the makeshift door said. "This came for you."

He blinked at the extended envelope. Who on _earth_ … He didn't think he'd ever been sent something before. Something he didn't have foreknowledge of, at least.

"You want it or not?"

 _What is it,_ he tried to say, but the thought didn't quite make it to his tongue and he ended up just staring at with his mouth hanging open. That was not attractive _at all_ , and it certainly didn't bely the genius he really was. The man just rolled his eyes and dropped the envelope on the floor, where it hit the linoleum with a soft _thwack_. He frowned at it. It was kind of… blurry.

Ah. His glasses, he needed those. He felt a little more awake just then, at least, and found them on the table next to the bed without a lot of trouble. He slid them onto his face and the world sharpened.

He got up slowly; he was still dizzy, as well as a little stiff from lying down for so long. His back hurt. He vaguely remembered lifting something he shouldn't have. That was why he'd built Nikola in the first place. That, and the fact that more than one of his self-professed strongest henchmen had dropped said object on themselves, which had resulted in a God-awful mess and the near breakage of Edward's toes. He had vowed never again to wear anything other than steel-toed shoes.

He somehow got across the floor to the envelope and sat in front of it, eyeing it a little listlessly. His eyes weren't focusing properly even with the glasses. He really had to try harder not to take this medication, whatever it was. It was dulling his game considerably. He found himself running the fingers of his right hand over the toes of his left foot. He'd forgotten crossing his legs. He felt a little numb. A lot numb.

He picked up the envelope. It had a slight weight to it. As though there were a small object inside. He couldn't guess what.

He turned it over and over in his hands. He had the feeling he shouldn't open it, not quite yet. Not until his thoughts were in order. When he asked himself where that impression came from, the answer came in a sudden burst: he didn't _need to know_.

And that… that _was_ distressing.

He put the envelope on the table and resolved to sleep the rest of this medication off. Without his need to know… he wasn't really him anymore. And above all else, he needed to be himself. It was all he really had, sometimes.

He would sleep. He would sleep for a long time, and when he woke up he would be sharp enough to remember not to take that medication when they brought it. They had sedated the need to know right out of him.

He didn't know very much right now. But he _did_ know that was _out of the question_.

He barely remembered not to take the medicine when they brought it; they expected him to be sedated enough already that they didn't watch to ensure he did.

Their mistake.

He drank the water, though, thirsty as though he had only swallowed enough these past days to ingest the diurnal pill and that had been all. He didn't doubt it, though his memory was not yet sharp enough to clarify.

His mind was, though. He was eyeing the envelope, grinding his teeth in anticipation of finding out what was in it. His thoughts were still a little too loose, a little too slippery, a little too elusive. So he wasn't able to guess. He didn't want to guess anyway. He wanted to _know_.

Not quite back on form, but good enough for now. Good enough for a start.

He worked one finger under a corner of the envelope, worrying away at the glue. His fingernails were too long. Some of them were too short. There was a fading bruise beneath his left ring finger.

Details. Good.

The paper was browned slightly, as though it had been sitting somewhere a long time. A drawer, maybe. The stock was solid, not flimsy. Not cheap.

The glue gave way without too much resistance. He frowned when lifting the flap revealed nothing. He separated the insides of the envelope and looked inside, hoping he hadn't been delivered an empty packet. Now _there_ was a riddle he wasn't of the mind to solve.

There was… a package inside, a paper one. Something sour was settling in the pit of his stomach. Mysterious packages delivered in blank envelopes were never, ever a good sign. He was leaning towards this being a packet of fear toxin, sent by Jonathan to scare him out of ever telling anyone about their deal – which he wasn't going to do, he wasn't _stupid_ – but he removed it anyway. He was curious. And a little bored. A little.

It wasn't fear toxin. It wasn't even poisonous. It was a packet of hot chocolate mix, of the kind he'd had to settle for recently. Confused, he turned it over.

The sourness in his gut turned to clenching.

On the other side of the packet was written, 'For Dad', almost ground into the waxed paper with some scavenged blue pen. There was something in his throat.

 _They were alive_.

Or at least, one of them was.

 _Go for broke, Eddie_ , he told himself. _All of them. All three of them._

All alive. All thinking of him.

All… all waiting for him.

Dare he think that? Dare he believe that maybe, just maybe, he had been _missed_?

He had been. He _had_ been. There was no other explanation for this. There wasn't! They had figured out where he was and they had sent him a _sign._

Edward looked up, down the fluorescent-edged hallway in front of him. His mind was not yet clear enough to make his escape. He needed to avoid another dose, perhaps two. He needed to watch carefully, to note rotations and wanderings and routes and gossip. And soon, he needed to do it soon. He had lain in this cell for far too long already.

It was time to go home.


End file.
